1H524 E5 
1899 




)UL 



^ 



N KPIC 

OF THE SOUL 



f/ 



NEW YORK 

THOMAS WHITTAKER 

1899 






Copyright, 1899, by Thomas Whittakhr. 






3180O 



( 






Press of J. T. Little & Co., New York. 



XTbe Deatb ot Summer 

CVJ HE weary summer sickens, soon to die ; 
^Sy The fields are dusty, and the sheaves of com 
Draw up their tattered draperies, raise on high 
Their warning, skeleton fingers, — ^nod and sigh 
In the passing wind, and whisper, all forlorn. 

For summer's work is done — her weak hand drops 
Its wealth of orchard rows, of ripened crops, 
Into the lap of autumn, standing by. 



II 

Ube TReian ot 2)ust 

3fl SEEK in vain, for no fresh flowers are here ; 
^^ A light wind curls the dust along the street. 
The grass is parched, the leaves are choked and sere; 
Although to-day begins the death of the year 
We gasp beneath the stifling, lifeless heat. 

And everything stands panting, white with dust, 
Impatient for the rain — the rushing gust — 
The thunderstorm to clear the atmosphere. 



Ill 

a iRefuoe 



SljljHBN thouglits of eartlily things too mucli enslave 

"^^^^ I turn to mighty suns by us unseen, — 
Or many a black, unknown, invisible cave 
Of our own globe, — or to the pulsing wave 

Of strange, dark blood behind this fleshy screen. 

Such little homes of one great God are we, 
And everything we see or do not see, 
Else all would be forgotten as the grave. 



IV 
^0 an Htbetst 

3^ AY, do not look on me so scornfully, 

^"^^ My friend ; beneath is ignorance and anguish. 

You skim the surface of philosophy 

And chatter your opinions flippantly — 

And all divine and saving passions languish. 

Yet terror yawns at times, and blank despair, 
For the relief of reverence is not there, — 
And yet you do not know your own deficiency. 



#»■ 



®ne Mbo sees Urutb an& jfalsebooJ) 

SkJOW futile is this life, unless there be 
^^■^ Some broad Intelligence, to reconcile 
My views of others and their views of me 
And mine of me, with that real self which He 
Beholds — a crystal sparkling in his smile. 

In Him we ravel out this tangled skein. 
In Him all crooked ways shall be made plain, 
All shall be clear as far as eye can see. 



VI 

H 2)C6ire 



SljljOULD that I were a ship, which in the vast 

"^^^^ Of waters, yet hath found safe anchorage, — 
A column, careless of the whistling blast — 
A pyramid, not to be overcast — 

An oak, whose roots strike deeper, age to age ; 



A rock, firm-set upon a stormy coast — 
A tower of strength against a maddened host- 
A self-forgetful, bold enthusiast. 



VII 
iRature's Ssmpatbs 



HOW nature sympatliizes with our moods, 
How well interprets them! She soothes away 
In the great sorrow over which she broods 
My selfish discontent, for she includes 
My little sadness in her own to-day. 



She mourns in each dejected, dripping leaf, 
Each dash of rain, — her uncomplaining grief 
Enwraps whole tracts of pathless solitudes. 



VIII 
Ibope in Despondency 

( ^^ S rays the sunliglit from tlie misty west 
/^^" After a storm, and sweeter is the calm, — 
So, though there seems a weight upon my breast. 
And though my heart is sick and sore-opprest 
I know that it will find a kindly balm. 

So I embrace my transient suffering 
And cherish it, and take away its sting, 
Till o'er my spirit steals a tide of rest. 



IX 
xrbe XanO JSeulab 

3 RECOLLECT one perfect day— words fail 
To tell the peace thereof, how fond soever. 
I seemed upon a spacious intervale 
*Mid grouping elms, deep grass and galingale, 
In time so sweet that it should last forever. 

Such days are far apart as hill from hill, — 
Their distant prospects, their pure visions thrill 
One's heart, when passing down a shadowed dale. 



X 

B Glimpse 

^k T times I see, as in a waking dream, 
-^^ Great nature laboring blindly toward no end 
I see her marvelous creations teem 
With useless life — and even the beauty extreme 
Of man's brute body, whither does it tend ? 

A sudden splendor flashes from on high, 
I see him bare his bosom to the sky — 
His frame transfigured in that piercing beam. 



XI 
•ffmrnortalitij 

fKNOW that it is so, in heart and sonl — 
As God doth live forever, we shall live. 
Though ice should lock the globe from pole to pole 
Or though the universe be turned to coal, 
'Twere but the end of what was fugitive. 

So when the world has fruited, and is naught. 
We still shall be an island in God's thought 
To care for, to illumine, to console. 



XII 
H Cruel Wcitv 

3^0ES God look do\vn upon us from a star 
'^^^ Careless of love or hate, of good or ill? 
And will He send no sliining avatar 
While man's great spirit beats its prison-bar 
Longing to worship, and to know His will? 

If He be but a great, impartial eye 
Expressionless, then let us creep and die, 
For we ourselves are more humane bj^ far. 



XIII 
Us ibe lRex>eale^? 

Sj^ET how can we submit to those inflictions 

J^ At which the powers of reason grow satirical, 
Or pin our faith to any pleasing fictions, 
Though honest seeming, full of contradictions, 
Supported by the jugglery of miracle ? 

The story seems a beautiful invention — 
The birth, the resurrection, the ascension — 
And can it move the mind with deep convictions? 



XIV 
H prapcr tor ipar^on 

^jfrORGIVB me, oh my God, if I resist 
W Thy holy Spirit; let me never harden 
My human heart's warm promptings, but enlist 
Its service for the truth — not warp and twist, 
Deforming knowledge, — pardon me, oh pardon I 

Let faith bring virtue, virtue understanding, 
Whence love is born, and love alway expanding 
Rise to the joy of thine evangelist. 



XV 
XTbe /©aster 



^■pfcNB way God opens by tlie wliicli we rise; 
^J^ Through him who was the perfect illustration 
Of all that saves, transfigures, dignifies 
Man's life — the Master speaking to the wise, 
The Prophet, fired by holy indignation, — 



Among the sons of men, still doing good, 
And round him, felt, but slowly understood, 
A gentle radiance, seen by angels' eyes. 



XVI 
©ctobet 

SIT is the pleasant summer of all saints, 
/^ And autumn, in his ripe old age serene, 
(While now the mellow sunlight richly paints 
The maples,) free from discords, cares, complaints, 
Feels close at hand the world that is unseen. 

Oh, happy those who labored long ago 
And after labor rest — ^what peace they know 
In silent spaces, far from toils and taints I 




XVII 
Hftersummer 

ORB beautiful than summer in lier pride, 
Sweet spirit of repose, I cling to thee! 
Must thou depart? Then let thy peace abide 
With me the winter through; nay, do not hide 
The sorrow in thine eyes — it grieveth me. 

Yet that thou could'st, upon this rustic seat, 

Against this sunny wall, stay with me, sweet ! 

But no, a cool breeze whirls a withered leaf aside. 



XVIII 
Contemplation 

(^k H, would tliat it were granted me to lead 
^^ A sheltered life — that I might overlook 
From some high oriel, a sunny mead 
Toward mountains in the south, and day long feed 
Upon the ripple of the distant brook. 

To feel the quiet of the afterglow 
And tune the frame in harmony — to grow 
Into the heart of things — were life indeed ! 



XIX 
Hctfvlts 

S^ WOULD not be forever self-controlled, 
^^ But witli clear eyes that sometimes flame in wrath, 
Not dimmed by too much study, — and high-souled, 
Large-limbed, pure-blooded as a god of old, — 
Strong as an athlete coming from the bath ; 

And with a body fresh and unabused. 
By some great thought uplifted and transfused, 
Not bent and soiled with grovelling in the mould. 



XX 
Bualism 

(^k H me I I cannot do tlie thing I would : 
^^^ Some strange perversity, I know not what, 
(As if before my face a phantom stood) 
Bewilders me, and blurs the pure and good — 
I catch a glimpse of something I knew not. 

Oh make me one as Thou art, gracious Lord ! 
For often I am like a twanging chord 
Seen double, and not sounding as it should. 




XXI 

I HALL I not pray? With curling lip you say: 
"What profits it?" Oh worshipper of the letter, 
You fall upon your knees before the gray 
Old despotism of law — Him I obey 

Whose thoughts those laws are. Tell me, which is better? 

As man works wonders in the realm of sense 
Shall not our God, in his kind providence, 
Pour his free spirit on us when we pray? 



f 



XXII 
matures sternness 

N nature everything must yield to power, 



^ Brute force in one direction — she endows 
No life with freedom, but the strong devour 
The feeble and the ailing in that hour 

When they forsake the line that she allows. 

Yet thus she holds to her ideal types — 
And we must scourge ourselves with many stripes, 
Cast off, put on, to win the offered dower. 




XXIII 
TTbe Street 

O mournful are the crowded city streets 

They almost shake my faith — the herd that races 
To gorge its sensual greed, that fawns and cheats, 
And all the loathsome faces that one meets— 
The sordid, bloated, leering, sneering faces. 

May I not scorn these scramblers after pelf, 
I, who at times do so despise myself? 
*Tis fair — it does but cancel my receipts. 



XXIV 

SufcUT some one clasps me, with a playful sigh; 
>^" And softening beneath the dear compulsion 
In consciousness of faithful love, — though shy, 
Told by an eloquent lip, a trustful eye, 
I feel the surges of a glad revulsion. 

Oh happy traitor to thyself, my friend! 
I triumph in thy love, and comprehend 
How we can lose ourselves, and never die. 



XXV 
6itasol 



SK^BLOVKD ! (I but name thee as thou art) 
>*^' Why did I then look up ? My eyes met thine ; 
And 't is a pleasure when we stand apart 
To fix my gaze on thee, and see thee start; 
Yet fears arise which I cannot define — 



For all day long my being is subdued 
To one melodious strain, and in that mood 
I fall asleep, with music at my heart. 



XXVI 
TReaDs tor Minter 

*S|| STROLLED to-day along a country road. 
^^ Through scrawny apple-trees — an orchard-lane- 
I saw a farmer's house, a warm abode 
Low-roofed and thrifty, — and near by a load 
Of wood piled neatly, sheltered from the rain ; 

And overhead the scudding clouds were black ; 
The hay was heaped in one enormous stack — 
And desolate the fields where it was mowed. 



XXVII 
3Betorc Dapbteaft 

fflN yon dark cottage wakes anotker day, 
^' For from tke window gleams a ligkt across 
The vacant yards, and silent pastures, gray 
Witk rime, and places deadlier cold than they — 
Where the thin willows fringe the ice-filmed foss. 

Beyond, a valley dim in vapory chill, — 
And patient trees that sentinel the hill 
Against the dawn, just glimmering far away. 



XXVIII 
jfirst Snow 



<^W^HB frost has traced its fairy-like designs 
^Si^ Upon my window — fragile ferns in masses. 
A fall of snow has come by night, and shines 
Upon the floor of ice beneath the pines, 

And makes soft cushions of the tufted grasses. 



Around, up hill and down and out of sight, 
The forest stretches, pale in spectral light, 
And in its depths a mystery enshrines. 



XXIX 
Bternal %iU 



m 



HAT shall tlie end be? Must eacH one succumb 
Contentedly, and find his whole employment 
In serving one world-state? In masterdom 
Of art or science ? In the wearisome 

Pursuit and grasp of dull, mundane enjoyment? 

In other, grander lives my own shall lurk — 
But that is not enough ; so let me work 
To find the being that I shall become. 



XXX 

TOe 'Unircrral lUiU 

3f^«^ T^y most thorough-going self -disgust 
^^ I find m}' God, and if I set my teeth 
And wrestle with Him, thrust and connter-thmst, 
I touch a Being in \Miom I can trust, — 
WTio closes me around and undemeath- 

Slowl}' I struggle up to liberty 
By making His will mine — and finally 
I know He lores, because He is so just. 



XXXI 
Hspiratton 

3|jlJHENCB comes this reaching upward, this desire, 
■^^^^ Of holiness, that draws with godlike force? 
This thirst and hunger, when our hearts aspire 
To purity made perfect as by fire? 

The river cannot rise above its source ; 

And so our longings shall not be denied, 
But we shall live to see them gratified 
When borne aloft on wings that never tire. 



XXXII 
Zbc lEnb ot lEvoltttion 



5T struggles on, blindfolded, old and bent, 
The pitiful, pathetic world — it groans, 
And raises to the sky its wild lament. 
And often in its wretched discontent 

It seems to dash itself against the stones. 

A strong young man who failed in his high aim 
And then abandoned hope — yet all the same 
Christ is the goal of his development. 



XXXIII 
Vn iparaMse 

SI TRUST that all good men v/ho lived of old, 
'^ And all who did or do their best, will hear 
In the mid world the truths that were not told 
Them here though eager — never wilful cold — 
And that they shall be painlessly made clear. 

Yet warmer grows the light through dewy air 
In still expectancy of morning, where 
Through centuries of calm, their souls unfold. 



XXXIV 
December 



^^TO-NIGHT a tempest rages, but within 
^fl^ The fire-light warms the room, and all in vain 
The north wind pauses in his blustering din 
To catch the flakes in air and make them spin 
More swiftly, hissing at the window-pane. 



He howls among the pines, he beats the walls, 
And gladly would he rush through desolate halls 
And make all dark where light and love had been. 



XXXV 



(JB^HB sun is bright, the chimes of Christmas ring — 
%2U The day that brings old friends to greet our eyes. 
But let us first our Christmas carols sing; 
Then from their hiding places will we bring 

The gifts, and watch each other's pleased surprise. 

Oh happy winter day! Its gladness cheers, 
Yet with a memory of by-gone years, — 
So chastened, be it long-continuing. 



XXXVl 
13cUct 

^i^i'.Kll'M'' is surely not so ditVionU— 
^ "'^ This jovfnl season is a niiraclo, 
As is the Kuij;, harmonious result 
Throuv^h toiliuv; eeuturies ol' a foree iveult, 
I'Vlt — yet invisible, inaudible. 

Yes. 1 woulil lain believe, lor is the faith 
(.">( holy v>nes tln\>Ui;h av;es but a wraith 
In uhieh toilav sueh noble souls exult? 



XXXVII 
JSxvcvicncc 

/jjlr IVIC mc tcnipcsluons days of strife and stress, 
^<^ With rai)id clKinj.a's IVom <k'.';]).'iir to hoj)c; 
'I'luy know tlic* iiiij^lity moiiiilain Inst who press 
Imoim v.'ik- lo siiinmit, and thfy Iciiow far less 
Who stand forever half-way up tlie slope. 

Thou knowest tliat .slaj^nanl waters cannot flow; 
vSliould we he nun, not In-inj^ l(iii|)k(l ? No; 
In victory is the inUiK.cst h.'i])j)iness. 



XXXVIII 
Cboice an& (3uit)ance 

3^1^ I must choose, yet save me from the blight 
^^ Of trusting what is pleasant (a forlorn, 
Self-blinded thing), like one who walks by night 
Along a broken bridge, without a light — 
A creature whom the devils laugh to scorn. 

Oh, draw me up to Thee, Thou Power unseen I 
I tread upon a slippery ledge, between 
tJnfathomed gulfs, no landing-place in sight 



XXXIX 
Ube Tnnseen TRllorl& 



^^pHEY talked to me of spiritual things; 
^Sy I thouglit them all afloat, without a helm, 
On Polar seas, and vain their voyagings, — 
I now think that their anxious questionings 
Are driving men to seek a wider realm. 

And that what seemed to me a vague remanding 
To mystery, is the way to an expanding 
And sunny province, whence all wisdom springs. 



XL 
Ubc 2)awn of Urutb 



(^8KHK march of tliouglit — how slow, how exquisite 
%Sy It is ! At first, belief in many gods, 
Until the mind, amid its groping, hit 
Their unity, and at a flash was lit 
After the lapse of lengthened periods. 



New splendor breaks, and man, in charmed spell, 
Sees how the powers that rule and that rebel 
Find their solution in the Infinite. 



XLI 
Ube Spirituality of 3Law 



^Bf^HROUGH everything we see there runs a law 
^^ Whicli in itself is quite beyond our ken. 
What are those mighty forces that can draw 
The oak-tree toward the sky, and keep in awe 
The force that tries to pluck it back again? 



Both work together — neither is annulled, 
And by their master-mind the spheres are lulled 
In ringing harmony, without a flaw. 



XLII 
St. Bancs' Bve 



(JSKHK spruce-trees on tlie lawn are draped and crowned 
%Sy With many a snowy, glittering festoon. 
The earth is numb with bitter cold, spell-bound 
In wintry quiet, patient, void of sound — 

The winds are still beneath the frozen moon. 



I look up wistfully. Above the pane 
Hang roping icicles — a crystal chain 
Moon-silvered, wind-twisted round and round. 



XLIII 
Zbc ifullness of tbe Stature ot Cbrfst 

SImPOSTOR He, who stands the self-confessed, 
^' Who dared so oft to say, " I am " ? Absurd '. 
No lie could last so long. Such interest 
A wandering madman's tale could not invest — 
The echoes of his cry would be unheard. 

A self-deceiver? It would be deceit 
To call by such a name a life so sweet 
And rounded, in all else the holiest. 



XLIV 
latmost Xove 

fF one of these imperfect likenesses 
Sliould boast itself a God, its blasphemy 
Be lightning-scathed until it perishes, — 
And yet there is no greater love (he says) 
Than out of love to suffer willingly. 

My heart accepts the sacred chronicle 
That tells how Christ, from bliss ineffable, 
Came to reveal our Father's purposes. 



XLV 
*'<Blors to 6o& in tbe Wabesf' 

jj^OES not His suffering prove the Fatherliood 
>^* Of God, so craved, so doubted, in this age? 
(The world is like a vast and shadowy wood, 
The haunt of all wild things, and to the good 
A place of strange and lonely pilgrimage). 

Yet God was glorified in raising us, 
And therefore rang that song melodious 
From heaven which angels sang, — they understood. 



XLVI 
'Cbe TRllas ot Deliverance 

<^3pHB Lord of life is our deliverer 
^fl^ From sin — lie makes us one witli righteousness 
In which our life is hid. When those who err 
In thickets of sharp thorn and juniper 

Look up to him for guidance, he will bless. 

The sunset glimmers through a deep ravine 
That parts the awful mountains, and between, 
A single star, to cheer the wanderer. 



XLVII 
TKflintcr iRetons Still 

(^k LITTLK wtile the earth must sleep, for so 
-^^^ The tyrannous winter bids, and thick and fast 
Come from the Norland gusty whirls of snow 
To fold the meadows — but it soon will go, 
It was a sudden storm, perhaps the last. 

The silent road goes winding to the town. 
And over it the elms bend meekly down. 
Pleased with the graceful shadows that they throw. 



XLVIII 
/l^arcb 

3flT is the saddest montli of all the year, 
'^ Of weary waiting for the spring to break. 
Under the drenching rain the earth is drear, 
And through the streaming pane all things appear 
Like wavering reflections in a lake. 

And if the sunshine flitteth, faint and dim, 
The oak and beech-leaves still will sigh their hymn 
Of mournful retrospection in mine ear. 



XLIX 
DepcnDencc 

QAT seems that we are made less for our own 
^ Than others' pleasure. What expressions wake 
Beneath our varying thoughts are watched and known 
By every eye that wills save ours alone — 
Hath any beauty? 'T is for others' sake. 

We move about this planet, sensitive 
To every motion round us, and we live 
As long as strength is left in us to moan. 



a SoUtuOe ot Sin 



^W^HE torrent of his curse what force can stem, 
^Zy What measure can determine his obliquity 
Who ruins others? Peace may come to them, 
And waves of ocean sigh their requiem, 
The victims whom he slew in his iniquity. 



For them and for himself he must account, 
And, till he fill the terrible amount, 
Through hopeless cycles must himself condemn. 



LI 
Zbc jfoUi? of MfcfteC)nes5 

^^ThAT fate shall theirs be that desire hell, 

^J^ And all that love to grieve the heart of God? 
Shall they not have their wish? They know it well, 
They chose iniquity, there let them dwell. 

With smitten brain, delirious at the prod 

Of self-disgust, they grovel horribly 

In fits of unrepentant agony 
And longing for the past which they can never quell. 



LII 
H Maste ot Uorment 



^iMTHERS there are puffed up with boastful pride, 

VJ>^ And some with hot, incestuous fire that maddens, 

Yet, in their state, is never satisfied; 

And some by desert winds blo\m far and wide, 

Whom fierce desire of torture stings and gladdens 
Yet impotently. "When their frantic wish 
Is unfulfilled, a frenzy devilish 
Drives them to vain attempts at suicide. 



LIII 
Zbc SbaC>ow ot a Gccat BreaD 

^■S|H God, my God, have mercy on these men 
^>J^ Who, as they gather knowledge, grow in sin I 
Have mercy on the world — it is a den 
Of writhing serpents, and the wild amen 
Of thy despairing people swells the din. 

The coming blackness makes the senses reel — 
And yet what hateful gratitude we feel 
To see the lurid sunset fade again ! 



LIV 
H Sounb ot Sprtna in tbe Hit 

fLONG for spring to come — no words can tell 
How glad my heart is wHen I find a fringe 
Of green by melting snow-banks in a dell. 
Tbe blades of grass are rising, cell by cell ; 
Aslant the lawn I catch a faint, fresh tinge. 

These frequent showers are for the new year's christening, 
And looking very far away, and listening, 
I hear the mellow tolling of a bell. 



LV 
XCo tbe 6reat Conqueror 



dwfk^ Victor over darkness, death, decay — 

VJ>^ Those livid phantoms baleful-eyed and frowning 

Whose foul corruption deadens with dismay 

The soul of man — his body is their prey. 

They drum in his ears while he is gasping, drowning : 



Oh Victor over that portentous will 
That massed itself against thee, conquer still, 
And lead us men to seek the cheerful day. 



LVl 
Bt BpentiOe 



QfflWHBN fades beyond tlie softly folding door 
■^^^•^ The noisy world, and wlien tlie closing blind 
Sbuts out tbe ligbt of day forevermore, 
And wben tbe breaker dies upon the shore, 
At evening they may seek, but shall not find. 



For I shall stand above the little earth 
With hands outstretched, a soul of greater girth 
And of a stature loftier than before. 



Lvn 

Bearer to tbe Stars 

SpORD, I would follow thee, I too would flee 
^^ The spirit-vexing world that brings disunion, 
The gibe and grin of those who cannot see 
Or understand — and hasten to the free 

And lonely places fit for rapt communion. 

To gain the tranquil strength that God instils 
On starlit slopes of broad Perasan hills — 
I^rdj let me follow, let me walk with thee! 




LVIII 
Sunligbt XTbrougb iRain 

'VEN as a little one that droops and fears 

The task before him, thinks it hard, and cries 
Because it seems so dark — but when he hears 
How easy is the way, his visage clears 

And he begins to smile, with brimming eyes, — 

So I, who struggled with my wretchedness, 
A foolish child, now gratefully confess 
How light the burden is, with happy tears. 



LIX 
IRenewfng TTime 

^k GAIN the goodness of His work has won 
^^ A smile from God — the frosty nights that strove 
With light and warmth, are by that smile undone, 
And mists of sunny green have now begun 
Upon the stirring maples in the grove. 

It gladdens heart and eye to stand beneath 
The buds, each bursting from its ruddy sheath, 
And see them hold their little fingers to the sun. 



LX 
xrbe /IDarvel ot tbe Bew Xite 



Qtto^^HAT strange delight it is when spring returns 

■%Wt^ To taste the oak-buds' nutty tea — to look 
Through sprouting woodland thickets 1 How one yearns 
To wrest the mystic secret from the ferns 
That rear their filmy crosiers by the brook ! 



Far off 1 see the dogwood's creamy pink, 
Through beds of withered leaves the violets wink, 
In my own life the blissful fever burns. 



LXI 
IRelease 

f THINK tliat it should be enough to spend 
The morning long in worship by a brook 
With many a rushy cove and lilied bend, 
Or in the woods, — yet I would not offend 
One trustful soul who cannot read that book. 

Yet let me walk upon the lonely beach 
Or on the hills — 't is there that I can reach 
Unvoiced communion with a steadfast friend. 



LXII 
H jfarewcll 



^^T^IIOUGH tliou art far away, I love tliee still. 
^Sjy upon a many-petalled nenuphar 
A (lew-drop glistened — it can do no ill 
To let it glisten — so I love thee still, 
Although thy love is now a setting star* 

It should not be — no pondering can tell 
AVliy it is so — yet I would not compel ; 
Thou hast not wronged me, and I love thee still. 



LXIII 
Morsbippers ot iiDtnD an& sense 

^■ ^^ T times sweeps over me a high disdain 
^^^ Of those who boastfully are destitute 
Of faith save in themselves ; their greatest gain 
A life of pleasure (disciplined and sane) — 
I cry against them, I cannot be mute. 

Rather than such a blindness, I would run 
In passion even to that guilty one 
Whose clenched fingers cut her palms for pain. 



LXIV 
H lRirer*valle^ tbrougb tDe Mil^erness 

3| SEEK lier guidance o'er the stormy downs 
'^ Who offers me a cup unmixed and pure; 
Whose every act a faithful purpose crowns — 
Whose earnest voice no lowering thunder drowns, — 
'T is full of comfort, bidding me endure. 

And at her touch I quiver through and through, 
It cools the brain and makes the pulses true; 
It carries healing into crowded towns. 



LXV 
H IDista in /ICiais 

5] STOOD to-day within a bright arcade 
^^ That on a sudden opened far before me; 
A breezy roof of green too light to shade 
The new growth underneath, on which there played 
A glory, scattered through the young leaves o'er me. 

And toward that light I turned — my steps were charmed, 
A glossy-winged bird rose up, alarmed. 
And glinted like a jewel down the sunny glade. 



LXVI 
a Summer Bvenino Sft^ 

^[u'AIR islands of delight with golden brinks 
^ Afloat in summer seas, by soft winds fanned; 
Soon fading as the ebbing daylight shrinks 
(Yet for a while the lingering sunset blinks 
Through drowsy forest-trees of fairy-land) — 

While the new moon, a silvery galleon, 
Steers in pursuit of the departed sun 
And skims along the trees, then downward sinks. 



LXVII 
Hsfs— Hpollo— Cbrist 

Sjj OT prostrate as before Egyptian fanes 
'^^"^ Of echoing silences and vast repose, — 
Nor looking out o'er Attic hills and plains 
While afternoon's last golden sunlight wanes 
Upon divine Ionic porticos, — 

But wrapped in solemn joy, with lifted hands, 
Where, flushed with dawn, a great cathedral stands, 
I am borne upon the heavenward-soaring strains. 




LXVIII 
a Safe anO tranquil Darboc 

OME WHERE I have a strongliold of belief 
Still unassailed by anguish or despair; 
As in a bouse made dark by loss and grief 
In some alcove stands out, in strong relief, 
A statue, ever calm and pure and fair. 

Or as a sbip (beneatb a tropic moon) 
Dreams on tbe bosom of a still lagoon, 
While the vexed billows roar beyond the reef. 



LXIX 
[mbat Deartc^weariness /iDeans 

SI AM glad, devoutly glad, tiiat I embraced 
>^ Eacli object as 't was offered, which I meant 
To satisfy my heart with, — that I chased 
Moth after moth with headlong, feverish haste, — 

That none of them when clutched could bring content. 

I am glad that every pastime soon would pall 
And drive me on, for being sick of all 
I found the living waters sweet to taste. 



LXX 
H IRetrospect 

3J jJHBN I look back along my pathway — yes, 
"^^^^ Only a year ago — liow long it seems ! 
And I, a creature driven by distress, 
Whose strength is wasted by a sorceress, 

Who moans and tosses under haggard dreams. 

Even Nature now, who used me as her slave. 
Bewitched me, teased me with the love she gave, 
Is shy — and yet I do not love her less. 



LXXI 
Sbe Xoofts at ^e witb /iDeefter E^es 

Spi O longer as before does Nature mock 
^^^ Witli lavish, lawless beauty flung abroad 
A soul where thousand voiceless raptures flock — 
But I can stand where mountain-chains unlock 
To make a cradle for the race of God. 

No longer now with senses all awhirl 
I watch the clear, impetuous plunge and swirl 
Of crystal breakers round a ledge of rock. 



LXXII 

(^k FTER a plunge and swim 't is good to lie 
^f^ On bedded rockweed — feel the harmonies 
Of wafting wind and burning sun, and dry 
The skin v/ith fragrant bay-leaves, and so try 
To be as purely glad as Nature is. 

And when I cannot help it, if I would, 
But that I must cry out " My God, how good 1 " 
He is at hand, and loves to hear my cry. 



LXXIII 
Uqcs of iKarrenness 



^^^HB sleep of systems on their whirling rim 
^^ Empyreal eons throngh — the lifeless ocean- 
The agony of mountains — monsters grim 
That gorged and battened for an interim, 

And then the entombing glacier's cruel motion,- 



For labor with return so long dela3'-ed, 
For all His patient waiting, God is paid 
When but one loving spirit turns to Him. 



LXXIV 
jfaitb in Bbverslt^ 

mAY-weed and rabbit's-foot, so soft and wee, 
Fringe the dry roadside; and upon the stones 
Banked up in winter by tbe angr}'' sea 
The yellow primrose blossoms, the wild pea. 
And straggling sumach's juicy, crimson cones. 

Dear, patient plants, that weave your delicate flowers 
In spite of pitiless stones and scanty showers, 
Oh, may like hope and effort live in me! 



LXXV 
H promontory 

(^ WEATHER-BEATEN headland, bleak and lone, 
^^^^ Round wliicli tliere roars all day the north-east storm ; 
Yet there some fishers' cottages are thrown, 
Red-stained, with groundward roofs all lichen-grown, 
Huddled like sheep together, to keep warm. 

Walled in with each a sterile little farm : 
And inland, up a winding, sheltered arm 
Of the sea, the skiffs are anchoring, leeward blown. 



LXXVI 
Zhc Copse on the /»arsb 

^^\ LONELY spot, o'ergrown witli shrub and tree, 
^^^ With wHispering oak and poplar and \vild-cl1err3' 
(Safe nesting-places where the birds may flee) — 
These ringed about with plants of less degree, 
As golden-rod, swamp-hemlock, huckleberry. 

Around, perpetual marshes stretch away; 
Yet there the breezy coppice, night and day, 
Repeats the long susurrus of the sea. 



LXXVII 
jfarcwell to Summer 

^jS HE wild appeal of leaping billows tells 
^^^ Of summer's end. From rifled ocean-caves 
The beach is strewn with barnacles and shells ; 
To-night the power of the moon dispels 

The flitting clouds, and lights the troubled waves. 

Among the rocks is left a peaceful pool, 
Its margin heaped with sea-weeds dark and cool, 
And there all night the moon's unruffled image dwells. 



LXXVIII 
Marmons 



SjJlJHBN in the soul no motions disagree 
"^^^"^ There comes a faitli that nothing can disturb. 
And even when man no longer loves — when he 
Befouls himself and falls — it still can see 
The sweeping of a stream that is superb. 



All else is superstition — Thou, O Christ, 
Art reason, — even through sin are we enticed, 
Nay, forced to closer fellowship with Thee. 



LXXIX 
passion anC) tlbouobt 



^^^^HB world has entered on a grand domain 
^Zy Of boundless thonglit — but that has not sufficed. 
In truth, it still is puny and in pain — 
Now let it grow in passion, till it gain 

The immortal, all-controlling calm of Christ, 



It will, for only so can it achieve 
Results that we as yet can scarce conceive : 
It must, unless it would become insane. 



LXXX 
IDaleMction 



SW^HATHVER paths my steps have been amid 
"^^^^ Were chosen for me, though I know not wh}^ 
But think 't was love compelling all I did. 
And yet (since I have done as I was bid) 
I shall be cursed by those that love a lie. 



But some may kiss this page. May they be blest 1 
And then remember, dear ones — in the breast 
Of God Himself all poesy is hid. 



WAt 13 ibyy 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



llllllllllllllllHllilllllllllllllll 
018 477 441 



